You're All Crazy!
by Idhrenniel the Space Cadet
Summary: "I don't think you're going to believe this," I whisper. "But I think I've just found the Declaration of Independence stuck under my car..." RileyxOC
1. This is Beginning to Sound Illegal

**You're All Crazy!**

The ring tone on my cell is the _Mission: Impossible_ theme. It's pretty cool, you know. Whenever my phone rings in public, I'll sort of slyly turn to the person next to me and say, "Excuse me… I need to take an important phone call…" You know, all shifty-like. I've done it loads of times. And let me tell you, it's insane how many people you can scare if they don't actually know you. Just turn to the person next to you on a bus—or better yet, wait for an elevator so they can't escape—and presto! Instant restraining order.

But when I'm driving through the crowded streets of Philadelphia, _Mission: Impossible_ isn't exactly what I want to hear. Not when I'm running this late.

Gritting my teeth, I pull my phone clumsily out of the pocket of my jeans and flip it open. "Hello?" Ever notice that the word 'hello' is just 'hell' with an 'o' on the end?

"Hey—Fleur?" The sound crackles a little bit, but my friend Oona's voice is as chipper as ever. Most people I know sort of understand that there's this special time between nine and ten in the morning where I'm on the way to work, and that I don't like to be on the phone when I'm driving. But Oona has this idea that true, worthy friends—meaning herself, naturally—should be put before any thought of my road safety.

"What do you want?" I pound the gas pedal a little harder than I should, and the Toyota skids around the corner.

Oona snickers at my bluntness. "You left your wallet at my house yesterday."

"I did?" I try to remember if I put it in my purse this morning, but nothing really stands out in my mind. "I guess I might have…" I glance at the clock on my dashboard. "Couldn't you have called me last night or whenever? When I didn't have to break speed limits to make it to work?"

"I only found the thing this morning. And you should be grateful—you're lucky I didn't steal your credit card and blow your savings at the Apple store, Fleur Gertrude Hamilton."

I hate my name. I mean, 'Fleur' is French and all that, but I know for a fact that a crapload of my family is actually descended from a particularly brutal group of Vikings from the northernmost part of Sweden. Mom just likes French names, a little too much, if you ask me. 'Fleur' is fine, but Mom legally changed her name to Marie-Christine-Arlette before she met my dad. Which is… kind of excessive. I'm lucky to have escaped without a hyphen.

"What's wrong?" Oona sounds amused by my silence. "Can you stop by and pick it up?"

"Oona, I've already told you, I'm late for work!" Not to mention I'm stuck behind this really obnoxious moving truck that's spouting exhaust right at the windshield of my car. And we've hit a red light.

My friend's frantic. "But you're driving without a license! You know that's kind of… illegal, right?"

"My Boss from Hell is going to start paying me less than minimum wage if I'm late one more time." I snort. "That's illegal. Doesn't stop him from doing it."

The traffic light turns green again, and the truck surges forward. I can see through my window that it's nearly hit some blonde girl, but someone's managed to pull her off the road before she got all squished and stuff, so it's all good.

Stupid truck. Stupid driver, not looking where he's—

"Holy crap!" The moment I bring my eyes back to the road, I see a rather tall man in a navy suit standing directly in front of me.

"What's going on?" Oona snaps. A bit understandable, since I've just blown her eardrums out.

I pound my foot on the breaks, and the car makes a loud skidding noise, and the man sprints out of the way. I think he dropped something, but I'm already sailing forward too quickly to stop and apologize. "Don't worry about it." I breathe a sigh of relief. "There was just some guy, standing in the middle of the road."

"Well that's dumb. Did you hit him?"

"Nah." But my car's feeling kind of funny. It's sort of… I don't know. Uneven. Like I've got a flat tire or something. "Look—Oona? I'll stop at your house when I'm off for lunch, okay? I've got to go."

"Right, then. See you, Fleur." I flip my phone shut, and look at my clock again. I have about five minutes left, but the good news is that the bookstore is only a couple blocks away now.

Yes, I'm freaking out because I'm late getting to the bookstore. Go ahead and laugh. But let me tell you, with a boss like Mr. Levin, wandering through the children's section is like the Spanish Inquisition.

But what can I say? I'm just a lazy college student who's too inflexible to work in any environment where I am not surrounded by books. Though I'll admit I prefer the classics to the stuff in the children's section, no matter how awesome the _A to Z Mysteries_ are. I'm majoring in historic literature. It's kind of my passion. Obsession. Thing.

I back my car into the 'employees only' parking spot, which contrary to popular belief, does not make one feel very elitist, and I have to move in a bit of an abrupt circle, because there doesn't actually seem to be any spot for me. Some idiot's parked a motorcycle in my usual spot. I mean, what the hell—how does this puny little thing get a whole square to itself? It only needs half a parking spot…

Parking at the side of the curb, I let my car wobble to a stop, pushing the door open with my foot and climbing out. Curiously, I stroll over to the side of my car. If that careless dude in the middle of the read gave me a flat tire, I've got half a mind to hunt him down and make him pay for it. And believe me, it's happened before. It takes no stretch of my imagination.

But strangely enough, everything seems… normal. The tires seem okay for the most part. I circle the car, kicking each tire, and it hurts my toe. Maybe that's not overly relevant, but hey—I kicked a flat tire on my uncle's truck once, and it felt kind of squishy. Something catches my eye, though. A rather long, thin tube-like object is protruding from one of the Toyota's back wheels.

"Hello, what are you doing mutilating my car?" I gently pull it out. It's actually surprisingly light, plastic, probably. Was this what the freaky road guy dropped? If it is, then whatever's in there probably belongs to him . And Mom always told me that other people's possessions are none of my business.

So naturally, after glancing back and forth to make sure no one's being nosy, I unscrew the cap and pull out its contents.

The first thing I feel is really old paper, and I immediately try to handle it with more care. Did I nearly hit some kind of curator or something? I slowly unroll it, but have slight difficulty due to its size.

And I stare, my heart pounding in my chest the way your toe throbs when you smack it against a brick. But then I laugh. This thing's just a copy. A good copy, but a copy nonetheless. Whoever made this knew what they were doing, though. The document looks exactly like the Declaration of Independence. What was Road Guy going to do with it? Sell it on the black market?

I turn it over carefully, and the paper gives a discomforting crackle as it contacts a gust of wind. There's a weird column of numbers written down one side, like it's some kind of code. Weird thing is, it's got that same loopy handwriting that those 'founding fathers' used. But why would it be there when everything else is trying so hard to be an exact replica?

Oh my God. What if it's some kind of criminal's code? Should I call 911? What would I even tell 911 exactly? What if—

"Hamilton, what the hell are you doing out there?" The voice is booming, but not in a very deep pr manly way. It's sort of squeaky, whiny. It's Mr. Levin, wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt under his suit jacket and standing just outside the doorway to the bookstore, glaring at me. "Idiot! Get over here before you're fired! I need to get my lunch…"

The joys of working. I glance down at the clever forgery in my hands. I don't know what this is about, but I have this strange feeling that it is somewhat illegal. And I've had enough illegal things today with the whole 'driving without my license' thing, thank you very much. Maybe I should report this. Maybe it might be nice not to get caught later with this thing floating around in my car. But my job pays for classes. And my house. And all the pizza I order.

I love pizza…

"Coming!" Rolling it back up and slipping it back inside the container, I stash the document under the drivers' seat of my car and slam the door shut. Shoving my hair behind my ears, I follow Mr. Levin inside.


	2. And I Thought the Ticket Was Bad

Chapter 2

I stand as still as I possibly can, hoping against hope that the latest group of customers will think that I'm just part of the next bookshelf. Not that I don't _like_ customers or anything, they're kind of important to my salary. But these are all teenage girls with Edward Cullen T-shirts on, and we've run out of all our copies of _Twilight_.

And I'm completely serious. Have you ever _met_ these _Twilight_ fans? The last girl I had to tell that we've sold out of all things Stephenie Meyer looked like she was about to _kill _me…

They pass me by, and I instantly relax when they start talking to the girl at the information desk. Another close call.

I have a couple of friends who insist that this little tendency of mine is the reason why I never get a pay raise, but I don't really make a point of listening to them. Sighing quietly, I sneak a glance at the Batman wristwatch I got at Burger King last week. There's like only ten minutes before I have my lunch break, and I find myself quite tempted to just get out early. I peek out behind me.

Mr. Levin's looming over near the back entrance, bushy eyebrows furrowed and a thin scowl on his face. I duck behind the bookshelf again, and glance at the titles piled next to my face. On one side is a section of _Animorphs_, and on the other stretches _The Secrets of Droon_.

No _Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice_? I'm crushed. Sitting on the floor and curling up into the fetal position, I stare at the little bat-hands ticking on my watch.

"… Excuse me?" I glance upward at the sound of a young voice. "Do you work here?"

I clear my throat. "Um… sure. Yeah." Stumbling back to my feet, I straighten my name tag. "How can I help you?" I can't believe this… a nice, healthy, non-obnoxious customer! Mr. Levin can't accuse me of slacking _now_…

The kid looks like he's eight or nine years old as far as I can tell, and he's wearing a uniform from a school that I don't recognize. "Well I was wondering if you guys had any copies of _The Da Vinci Code_."

Is this kid friggin serious? Now look—it's a good book. I read it myself when I took that flight to my parent's house in Florida last summer. But there's some stuff in the story that's not quite… appropriate for a kid that looks like he should be with his mother. But it would be so nice to help a customer for once, and when I really think about it—I mean, _really think about it_—there's worse stuff he could be reading.

"Well…" I shrug, sort of fumbling around and trying to regain my use of the English language. "It's certainly not in this section. Follow me."

Oh, goody! Youth corrupting time for Fleur... "It's actually a very interesting read," I say jovially, leading the kid over to the adult section. "A page turner. Finished it in exactly seven hours and fifteen minutes. What got you interested? In the book, I mean. If you don't mind me asking." I'm babbling.

He shrugs. "My older brother read it. Said it had lots of codes and conspiracies and stuff. Codes are interesting."

"So you just… run around Philadelphia with codes on the brain like this often?"

"Nope," he says. "Since earlier today, actually. Kind of a funny story."

All right then… I don't press him any further. "Here we are—" I pull a glossy paperback off the shelf and hand it to him. "Is there anything else you need?"

He shakes his head. "I'll just pay for this now, thanks."

Aw… What a polite kid I'm corrupting. I glance at the cash register and see that it's empty. The girl must still be at the information desk. Hope she's not dead or anything. "Here—" I all but leap ahead of the kid and grab the book from his hand, swiping it across the scanner. 'That'll be five dollars and ninety-nine cents plus tax," I say cheerfully.

He sort of fumbles with whatever's in his pocket, looking a bit weirded out. He doesn't even look at the bills he's holding out, he's so uncomfortable. Maybe I'm being too forward.

I make a point of taking some deep breaths as I count the money, but something makes it speed right up again. "Um… dude?" I whisper, my eyes widening to the point where they're beginning to water. "One of your dollars has got a couple of extra zeroes on the end…"

He gasps. "Sorry!" But just as he's about to grab his _friggin hundred dollar bill_ back out of my hand, he stops. "Wait—You wouldn't happen to know if that thing's real, would you?"

I bite my lip, holding the bill up to the light like they do in those detective movies even though I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Hell, I don't know if this is legit or not. There are no secret words inside the paper saying anything like 'Hey, this is a real dollar bill! Have fun spending…' or anything like that. They never do show you what those cops are actually looking for.

But I don't want to crush this kid's dreams or anything. "Looks real enough to me." I'm not an expert, but at least I'm not exactly lying. I hand the kid the money and his book, and he gives me the extra one that he actually needed to pay for the thing.

"Have a nice day!" I call, as he runs out of the store. Heh… yeah. Have a nice day, little child who wanders the city unattended with too much money in his pockets…

Again, I check my Batman watch, and silently thank Batman for pointing his clock hands at twelve o'clock. "Lunch break time!" I squeal, ripping my name tag off of my shirt and shoving it into my pocket. "See you later, Mr. Levin."

He grunts as I dash out of the back exit, and even though he sounds kind of annoyed, I figure it's a good sign that he's responding at all.

Practically skipping through the parking lot, I rush to my car and throw the door open. The document is still there, which is nice.

There's just a parking ticket fluttering behind my windshield wiper. I roll my eyes, and pick it up. Apparently, I'm not allowed to park my car on the curb like that. Well it's not like I was blocking anything. And it's all that stupid motorcycle's fault anyway, stealing _my _spot…

Putting the ticket in the glove compartment, I climb into the Toyota and head over to Oona's place.

It's not far from here. Oona Jones lives in this nice set of little brick row houses near the bookstore and right next to a Starbucks. She's lucky—the only thing I live near is my hundred year old neighbor who introduces herself every time she sees me.

The sight of actual parking spaces ready for my use cheers me to no end.

My friend's waiting for me on the front steps, and waves to me happily. "Hey!"

I arch an eyebrow. "How long have you been waiting out here?"

"Hello to you, too…" Oona snorts. "I wasn't out too long if that makes you feel any better."

I reach under my seat and pull out the document before following her into her house. She ushers me into a spacious room, full of fuzzy carpets and a pair of black and white lounge chairs. Oona's living room looks kind of empty, as if she's cleared out too much space for the flat screen TV and never bothered to add much else.

"So," Oona leans back against the closest chair, motioning for me to have a seat in the other one. "How was work?"

I shrug. "Okay, I guess. Hid in the children's section for a bit. Sold some kid The Da Vinci Code even though his mother would probably kill me."

"Nice… What have you got there?" Oona indicates the plastic tube that I have tucked under my arm.

"Well you know that stupid dude in the middle of the road I told you about this morning?"

"Yeah."

"You'll never believe this…. But he _dropped_ it. Got stuck in the wheels of my car."

Oona leans forward a bit. "Is your car okay?"

"As far as I can tell. But check this out." I open the case carefully, and unroll the document inside.

Oona's eyebrows tilt slightly upwards, and I notice her mouth's hanging open a bit. "Holy—Is that..?"

"I don't think so. Just a fake." I hand it to her. "Come on, Oona. The Declaration of Independence is locked over in that building—whatever it's called—in DC. There's no way it could possibly get _here_."

She studies it, eyes narrowing, holding it delicately by the edges and turning it from side to side. "But this is extraordinary," she breathes. "It's so realistic… How would you print all this on such old paper without damaging it?"

"I don't know." I stand slowly, surreptitiously wiping my shoes on her clean white rug. "Weird isn't it? And what do you think of all those numbers on the back?"

"Numbers?" Oona turns the paper over. "That _is_ strange…"

I walk behind her chair so I can look over her shoulder. "Unless it's some what set of foreign phone numbers, I'd say it's some kind of code."

"…What kind exactly?"

"How should I know? I suck at figuring out codes. I can't even do word searches without getting headaches."

"Well I think you may be on to something," Oona muses. "My aunt used to live in Siberia and her phone number looked kind of like one of these. But the document itself… We were studying these sorts of things in school last month. Not too in depth, mind you, but enough that this—" She holds the paper up, shaking it a bit for emphasis. "Is pretty hardcore. Look at this." Barely keeping her finger from brushing the parchment, she indicates an inscription:

"Original Declaration of Independence, dated July fourth, 1776." I laugh nervously. "Wow."

"Exactly. These people—whoever they are—really know their stuff. That's what it says on the actual document." Handing me the paper and letting me roll it back into its container, she gets up and strolls into the kitchen. "Your wallet's over here."

I trail after her, and see that it's definitely there—a rather tiny thing made entirely out of duct tape and covered in rainbow stickers.

I've never been so happy to see my ugly driver's license picture in my life. I give it an awkward object-hug, leaving the container in its place.

"Fleur, you're weird."

"Thank you very much." I grin at her, using a rare stroke of genius to respond to her comment and acknowledge that she's saved my friggin life at the same time. I mean, what if I got arrested for driving without a license and having strange counterfeit documents under my seat? That would suck.

I love you, credit card… I love you, driver's license with the stupid picture of my pasty face on it…

My momentary tolerance of my hated image is interrupted by a crashing noise outside, and the shrieking of a car alarm.

Oona stiffens. "What's that?"

"I don't know." Pocketing my wallet, I sprint towards Oona's window back in the living room, only to find— "Oona? What the hell is this _tree_ doing here? I can't _see_ anything…"

"Oh, come on," Oona grabs my arm, dragging me towards the door and picking an umbrella from the closet on the way out.

I raise an eyebrow.

She shrugs. "Just in case."

Just in case of _what_? Are the people breaking into the car going to get rained on? "Okay, then…" We rush out of the door, but I find myself slowing on the stairs. A group of four men, dressed in all these black sweatshirts and stuff, have just completely wrecked my car.


End file.
